“Listen you selfish bastard, if you don’t snap out of this right now, I’m not coming back. I’m sick and tired of wasting my time hanging around having one way conversations and reading out loud as if to a three year old. Now wake up you prick!”
He waited, watching for an eye to flicker, a lip to curl, a finger to twitch.
Nothing.
He sighed.
“Don’t worry you selfish prat, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He yawned. “Perhaps at a better hour.” It was after two in the morning and he was exhausted but restless, this late hour visit designed to make him tired, entertained by the staff here only because he was a charmer who brought coffees and biscuits for the nurses.
It had worked.
He gave his friend a pat on the shoulder, then headed for the door. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and didn’t recognize the number, but recognized the country code.
Switzerland.
Who the blazes do I know in Switzerland?
He took the call.
“Reading.”
“Hello Special Agent. This is Agent White. We met in London and recently in Egypt. Do you remember me?”
Reading didn’t recognize the voice at first, but with all the cloak and dagger those few words exuded, he quickly realized it was the head of the Delta Force unit that had tried to kill him a few years ago. Unlike Jim who had chosen to forgive them, he hadn’t. He didn’t hold a grudge per se, but he wasn’t willing to completely let them off the hook. He understood they were following orders, but that excuse had been used too often in history. He accepted that they were told the people they were after were identified as terrorists, and after 9/11 and England’s own 7/7 everyone was paranoid.
But it was their attack on Scotland Yard that he couldn’t forgive. Good men had died that day, but even then he had to give them credit. They hadn’t killed any of his fellow officers until one of their own had been killed.
Argh! It’s so bloody convoluted!
He had been trying to push it out of his head since the day it had happened without much success. And today apparently he was going to be reminded of those events.
“Yes, I remember.”
“Good. We have a problem I can’t get into over the phone, however two of my friends, and two of yours, were just arrested in Geneva. We need your help.”
“Two Professors I assume?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you back in one hour at this number.”
“Thank you, Special Agent.”
The call ended and Reading turned back to his silent partner.
“Back into the thick of it, my friend,” he said, then walked out the door.
And a finger twitched.
Unknown Location
“No! No! No! No! No!” sobbed Acton, his voice fading as his head dropped to his heaving chest, his sobs harder than anything he could remember, worse even than the sight of his students massacred in Peru only days before he had met the love of his life. It was overwhelming, it was heartbreaking, it was more than he could take. Their plans, their future, all gone. They were going to be married, build a family together. And now it was all gone.
And it was his fault.
If he hadn’t of insisted on coming to Geneva to help the Delta Team, she’d still be alive, and their future plans would still be intact.
He felt his stomach wretch and he turned to the side, vomiting on the floor, the harsh liquid burning his mouth and esophagus as his sobs continued. He spat to clear his mouth then stared into the darkness.
“You’ll pay, you bastards! You’ll all pay!”
The rage began to build, to take over, to fill him with a warmth as he imagined gutting those responsible.
They’re all dead. If it isn’t me, the Delta guys will finish the job.
Suddenly the light went out.
He bit his lip, trying to ease his sobbing, and listened.
Nothing.
He peered into the darkness but could see only black, telltale random dots of grey, almost like static, filling his field of vision as his eyes tried to make sense of what it was seeing, which was nothing, there being no light whatsoever. The pounding in his ears overwhelmed any sound that might be present, so he closed his eyes and busied himself with trying to control his racing heart. For there was one thing that he was determined to prevent, and that was being killed before he avenged his fiancée.
A foot scraped behind him, then footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossed the floor to his right, seemingly in a semi-circle, coming to rest in front of him, perhaps where Laura had been.
“Who’s there?” he asked, his voice tinted with hatred, soaked with sorrow.
No response.
“I’m going to kill you for what you’ve done.”
The footsteps retreated, then the sound of a door opening, a hint of light silhouetting a robed figure.
“Not, I think, today, Professor Acton.”
The door closed with a click that echoed through the room. He listened again. Footsteps retreated from the door, then nothing. He shook in his chair, straining at his bonds, but again, nothing.
It’s hopeless.
He forced himself to take deep, slow breaths, calming himself. He had to think, otherwise he’d just be wasting time and energy. With his eyes closed, he sucked in a breath through his nose, down into his stomach, and held it, the pounding in his ears slight now compared to moments before. The breath escaped through his mouth, and he repeated the process, his mind beginning to work the problem.
He was bound to a chair by the ankles, his hands bound behind his back, in a completely dark room. Whether he was alone or not, he did not know, and whether or not there were cameras for surveillance, he did not know. As well, there could be a guard on the other side of the door. He frowned. He didn’t even know if there was one door or ten.
Work the problem.
How many doors, guards or eyes on the room were irrelevant. He had to first free himself of his bonds. His hands were too tight, so there was no point in cutting himself further. His feet however were individually bound to the chair legs. If he could free himself of the chair, he’d be able to walk.
He tried to stand.
No luck. His hands were bound behind him, but were tugging on something else, probably one of the spindles he could feel against his back. He leaned forward and to the left, hard, trying to put all the weight on the one leg.
Nothing.
He repeated it with the right front leg, leaning as far over as he could, lifting his feet and toes as much as possible.
He felt it give slightly.
He sat back down on all four legs, repositioning himself to the front right as much as he could, then pushed himself up, dropping all the weight he could on the one leg.
It creaked, then suddenly snapped, sending him tumbling to the floor. He closes his eyes and turned his head before smacking face first into the cold, hard floor.
With one free foot.
With his right foot free, he was able to stand a bit more and his left foot popped free, the zip tie sliding off the leg. This left him hunched over with a chair still attached to his back, but at least he was slightly mobile. He stopped to listen, and there was no evidence of anyone coming to stop him.
Perhaps I’m not being watched.
Or they were just laughing since he had in fact accomplished little.
Feet freed. One problem down.
Next problem. Free self from chair.
His hands were tightly tied and attached to probably a single spindle. The chair felt fairly solid, so trying to break the spindle was out of the question, he’d simply slice his wrists open further. Separating the spindle from the top of the chair would be difficult since he had no leverage there, but the bottom might be possible. He stood up as straight as he could, pushing against the seat of the chair with his legs.
It gave a little.
Or perhaps it was his imagination.
He tried again but to
o much of the pressure was transferring to his wrists. He stopped, still hunched, part of him missing that fourth leg.
Pain?
He nodded to himself. He had to risk it, there was no other choice. He balanced on the front left leg, and with some effort it snapped as the chair and he fell to the side and on the floor, wincing as he barely avoided bouncing his head off the unforgiving surface. He rolled over then pushed himself to his feet, his muscles and wrists screaming in agony. Stumbling forward, he tried to maintain a straight line until he felt himself run into something. Exploring it with his shoulder, he determined it had to be the wall. Turning around and placing the rear chair legs against it, he walked forward ten paces then took a deep breath.
Now or never!
He rushed backward, still hunched over so the legs were at about a sixty degree angle with the floor, then suddenly felt the jarring impact of wood against stone as he pulled forward with his upper body and pushed back with his legs, the momentum carrying him hard into the wall.
There was a snapping sound as the rear legs gave way.
He came to rest against the wall, gasping for breath as he now sat attached to a chair with no legs, held on only by a zip tie to a single spindle.
And still as uselessly trapped as he was before this all started.
He slid down the wall, his muscles screaming for a rest, when he felt his wrists slide up the spindle toward the top of the chair. He pushed himself against the wall, his back now free, and stopped his descent. Pushing himself back up, he lifted his right foot, bending his knees as tightly as he could, leaning forward. He felt the sole of his shoe grip on the seat of the chair and he stopped, catching his breath as he tried to balance on one foot.
He sucked in a deep breath then pushed back as hard as he could with his upper body, putting as much pressure as he could on the back of the chair, while pushing down with his right leg. He could feel the sweat popping from his pores, his muscles screaming, and nothing happening with the chair.
He groaned in agony, his body about to give up when finally a splintering sound erupted from the chair behind him sending a surge of hope through him as a second spurt of energy from his emergency reserve was released.
He strained harder, getting his wrists in the game, feeling the bite as the chair splintered some more then finally, suddenly, the bottom ripped free and fell to the floor followed by several of the spindles, including the one his hands were bound around. Shaking himself back and forth, he managed to rid himself of the rest of the chair and finally stand up straight.
And the first thing he wanted to do was sit down.
Instead, he pressed his back against the wall and caught his breath. He looked about the room and still could see nothing, the black he had been engulfed in taking on a distinctly red color with white spots, probably from his exertion.
And still no sounds beyond his beating heart.
Surely they would be coming now if I were being watched.
Now he needed to free his hands. With it being zip ties, it should be dead easy. He bent forward, sticking his butt out and lifting his arms behind his back as high as he could manage. Then, swinging his hips forward, then back, he dropped his arms as hard as he could to smack his wrists against his buttocks as his hips surged back.
The zip tie snapped with an agonizing scrape of his wrists, the training he had done with Laura’s ex-SAS men always done with taped wrists.
But it was a small price to pay to be freed of his bonds.
He gingerly touched his left wrist with his other hand and winced, immediately regretting it. Next problem.
Prioritization.
Should he try to find a weapon in this room, which meant he needed light, or should he try to get out of this room, and find a weapon or some means of escape beyond the room?
If there were a light switch, it would most likely be by the door he would need to escape through regardless, so he gingerly made his way across the room to where he thought the door was. He found the wall with his outstretched hands, then began feeling up and down the wall from head to waist height, searching for the door and any switches as he moved to the right.
On the down stroke his left hand hit something and he paused. He moved his hand back up and knew immediately it was a switch. He closed his eyes and pushed it up.
The back of his eyelids turned bright red and he slowly opened his eyes, blinking them rapidly to try and adjust as he turned around, quickly scanning the room for any secret observers.
All he found was a lone bulb hanging from the ceiling, a broken chair, a knocked over lamp that had been shining in his face earlier, the bulb now broken and useless, scrape marks from where his beloved’s body had been dragged out in her chair, and nothing else beyond a barred window.
He strode across to the blacked-out window and tested the bars to no avail. He could poke a spindle through and break the glass, but it would do him no good. He was certain yelling for help would only bring the guards. Stepping under the light, he examined his wrists. They were in bad shape. He yanked at his sleeve, tearing it off then ripping it in two pieces, each of which he then carefully wrapped around his wounds.
He grabbed two spindles from the floor for weapons, turned out the light, and tried the door.
It opened.
He stepped into a dimly lit hallway, and waited for his eyes to adjust. He was at the end of a hallway, it stretching out before him with doors about every twenty feet alternating on the left and right.
Time to explore.
Geneva Cointrin Airport, Geneva, Switzerland
Interpol Special Agent Hugh Reading cleared customs rapidly with his passport and police ID, Switzerland not being part of the European Union but still one of the founding members of Interpol. He hadn’t bothered to go back to his office; he had immediately gone to his flat then the airport, calling in his requests and having them sent to his phone. It was now the morning after he had received the call, and his only communication with Sergeant Major Dawson had been through text messages.
I’m coming there, arrival 6:35am.
And the response.
Ok.
He had quickly found out about the arrest, but there was some confusion. The police raid showed four arrests, but they could only find two in the system. What had happened to the other two, a man and a woman, they didn’t know. They assumed they were just lost in the paperwork, occupying a holding cell somewhere. The other two, whom Reading assumed were Delta Force members, were listed as John Doe’s, refusing to give their names or any other personal information.
Reading had wrangled an interview with them, claiming they matched the descriptions of two men he was after.
They didn’t worry him. They’d figure a way out of it eventually. What worried him was that his friends were missing, and no one knew where they were. He didn’t believe for a second they were lost in the system. If those two were in Geneva with the Delta team, then they were involved in something, and it wasn’t taste testing chocolate samples.
They’re in trouble.
He briskly walked through the terminal and out the doors. He was about to get in the line for the cabs when he was bumped into. He felt a hand do a poor lift from his inside jacket pocket and was about to confront the man when he heard a whispered, “A gift for you.” Reading resisted looking after the man, the voice familiar enough to know he had just been handed something by a Bravo Team member. The urge to check what was in his pocket was overwhelming, but he resisted, instead dragging his suitcase to the lineup for the cabs, and minutes later he was on his way to his hotel.
With the airport safely behind him, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope. Inside was a note and a tiny item that almost looked like a pill. He unfolded the note.
Give this to either of them.
Reading stuffed everything back in the envelope then into his pocket as he wondered what the pill could be. It must be some sort of tracking device. But why would they need that? They’re going
to break them out! And now you’re involved. The situation was ridiculous. He couldn’t help two American soldiers break out of prison. He’d lose his job and probably go to prison if he were ever caught. But then again, it might be the only way to find James and Laura. They still hadn’t been found in the system, which meant they weren’t in the system. They had either escaped, which was unlikely, or they were taken by some other party. And if he didn’t help the Delta Force get their men back, they probably wouldn’t help him find the professors.
Then again they had proven to be quite fair and reasonable since the events in London. Almost as if they wanted to make up for what had happened.
It wasn’t long before he was at his hotel and checked in. A quick toilet and he was on his way to Bourg-de-Four Police Station. A flash of credentials and he was cleared to an interrogation room where he found a familiar face sitting, waiting for him, the other not so familiar. In fact, he couldn‘t be certain he had met the other, but there was no doubt it was Jimmy who was giving him a surly face.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I assume you speak English?”
Jimmy and the other nodded, still not making eye contact, their arms crossed, their legs extended far out, their butts pushed away from the back of their chairs.
A typical casual, ‘I don’t give a shit’ pose.
“I’m Special Agent Reading, Interpol,” he said, taking a seat across the table from them. “I have a few questions for you.”
No response, except Jimmy leaned forward, putting his cuffed hands on the table not a foot from where Reading’s hands were.
He ignored them, instead pulling out a pad from his briefcase, and a pen from his pocket, the cap very loose, the “pill” inside the top. He pulled the cap off the pen, letting the pill spill into the palm of his hand, out of sight of the cameras. He gripped it in his left hand as he picked up the pen with his right.
He looked at Jimmy.
“And your name is?”
Silence.
“Look, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”
The Circle of Eight (A James Acton Thriller, Book #7) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 17
